


Smug

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Adultery, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a smug bastard, the disarming picture of self-control. Anton still goes to his room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smug

**Author's Note:**

> Follow-up to [All So Easy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/145770).

He almost knocks, before he remembers he has a key; it seems impossible to have forgotten it, sizzling against the thin cotton of his button-down shirt all day. He enters the room to the sight of John flat on his back on the bed, still fully clothed, his arms behind his head and an open bag of Cheetos on his chest. He even looks smug when he's lounging. Anton feels the familiar flame of enmity again and doesn't allow himself to speak. He waits for John to notice him, tear his attention away from the TV, which takes about a half-second too long.

"Oh, hey, you came," is what John says, and then he changes the channel. "Wow."

"You told me to." He can be smug, too, he thinks. Anton goes to the bed and sits on the edge, taking the bag of Cheetos and eating a handful. They leave sticky orange powder all over his hand and he fights the childish urge to wipe it off on his suit. It's a good suit; his assistant would kill him.

John sits up and reaches around Anton to dip his agile fingers into the bag. He leans close, his breath ghosting against the young boy's ear. "You mean you gave up an exciting evening of getting shit-faced with Pine and Urban in the hotel bar to come up here and eat junk food with me?"

Anton turns his head just as John's fingers push the Cheetos into his mouth. His tongue grazes against his fingertips and the food leaves a neon smear against his smirking mouth. As good as Anton's suit may be it suddenly feels three sizes too small.

"I could do that any night," he finally replies. Every word feels forced from his dry throat. "Do you have anything to drink?"

"Minibar," John says, waving to it. Anton gets up quickly, probably too quickly, and rushes to it, choosing a can of Coke and a tiny bottle of rum. He finds one of the empty glasses on the dresser and starts mixing. John laughs over the plastic rustle of the Cheetos bag. "So you're gonna get shit-faced here instead. Got it."

"I just need one drink." Something to ease his nerves, he thinks. He should be getting wasted somewhere with Chris or back in his room, watching commercials for Girls Gone Wild and fisting his dick. "Why don't you ever join us down in the hotel bar, anyway?"

John points to the ring on his hand and shrugs. "Married. If I drink too much, I can't be held responsible for my actions."

Anton has to lift his brows at that. John Cho, losing control of a situation? Losing control of _himself_? He'd like to see that. Oh, yes, he would. "You want a drink?" he asks, holding up his own glass. John blinks and then grins at him.

"Yeah." He sets about sucking the orange tinge from his fingertips, looking back at the TV. Anton swallows and searches for another tiny bottle.

*

The sex isn't gentle, it's all a rough battle of tongues and limbs and Anton thinks he can taste traces of neon left behind in John's mouth. He pulls at his dark hair—so straight and perfect, no messy, adolescent curls—and fights with his shirt buttons, unable to see what his hands are doing, too immersed in the heated battle of lips versus teeth. He gets John's shirt open and breaks the kiss to remove it, then stops himself; the tan slope of bare skin, just glimpsed between open folds of cotton, and the flex of muscles against the barriers of rolled-up sleeves are far too interesting. Anton isn't sure he could look directly at John if he were to show him everything.

Lube is spattered everywhere, on the bed and over Anton's thighs, and the slide of John's cock is fast and deep, but still stings enough to keep his eyes tightly shut. He grabs John's elegant arms, right below the crooks of his elbows where the sleeves are bunched, and winds his legs around him, feeling the jut of his hipbones.

Like this, John is so fragile, his shadow much less imposing. The sight of lust and abandon on the man's face—hell, anything besides the practiced apathy he sees there so often—makes Anton's dick throb. He leans up to taste, to scrape his teeth against that teasing glimpse of skin, and John ducks his head, muttering, "Bite my mouth, my mouth." He doesn't protest, just searches for the neon again.

He strains up toward John, silently begging for his hands, and there's that smug laughter again. Anton grits his teeth and kicks, his heel pounding his frustration against the back of John's thigh. "Fuck you, John, come on," he gasps.

"Say we're friends." He murmurs it between thrusts and when he looks up at Anton, his dark eyes seem bottomless. "Say you don't hate me and...and we're friends."

"We're friends," Anton agrees. He hopes he doesn't sound as desperate as he feels.

It takes all the strength he can muster not to come immediately when John's hand wraps around him. Anton breathes in the liquor-sour rush of John's breath and leaves scratches on his shoulder blades that he knows won't make him happy. _I'm drunk_ , John said before, laughing as he started pulling off Anton's clothes. His head tilted in the way that makes his hair flip to the side and Anton hated him all over again, just for being so perfect—for always having so much control over everything, everyone; him.

John's orgasm comes with a flinch, a stripe of pain across his eyes, and Anton half-wonders if he even enjoyed it. He squeezes Anton's cock until he comes too, and he curses himself for instantly cataloging it as the best, most intense, most satisfying, and all other labels of praise that John simply doesn't deserve, even if he does.

"We're friends now, right?" John mumbles after he's pulled out, curling against Anton's side. "You feel better."

"Yeah, I feel better."

The hand adorned with the golden band rests above the source of Anton's pulse and he stares at it, wishing it would disappear. John's eyes are closed, his body already slipping into sleep, and yet, with a carefully placed hand, he remains in control.


End file.
